“Oh, you’re impossibly prejudiced,” Phoebe said. Meg was never less than forthcoming with her robustly unflattering opinion of the male sex. Phoebe regarded her with curiosity. “Did some man offend you once… or something?”
Meg shook her head. “Never gave ‘em the chance.” She stood up and reached up to the rack of herbs drying above the fire. She selected several strands and dropped them into the pot before resuming her slow, rhythmic stirring.
Phoebe absently pulled at the cat’s single ear. She’d met Meg when she’d first arrived in Woodstock, after Cato had acquired the manor house. She was known to everyone simply as Mistress Meg, and she was very reticent about her background and parentage, but her diagnostic skills and great talent as a herbalist had quickly earned her a place in village life, despite the occasional mutterings about the oddity of a single woman flying in the face of convention, living totally independent of any man. There were those who called her a witch, but Meg just laughed at such superstitions and continued about her business, dispensing earthy advice with her potions.
Phoebe was fascinated by simples and the arts of the herbalist. She’d proved an apt apprentice, absorbing Meg’s blunt opinions and down-to-earth wisdom, including Meg’s advice on avoiding conception.
Now Phoebe watched Meg curiously, contemplating the puzzle of her friend’s antipathy towards the male sex.
“You never felt passion?” she inquired.
“For a man! My stars, no!” Meg shook her head with an expression of horror. Then as she stirred, she added calmly, “There was a woman once.”
Confounded, Phoebe could only gaze at Meg until she found her tongue. “A woman?”
Meg smiled to herself. “Not everyone’s the same, Phoebe. As we were just saying.”
“No… but…”
“No, but what?” There was a hint of mockery in Meg’s smile now.
“Well, what happened? Who was she? Where is she?”
“Oh, she succumbed to convention… yielded to the power of man,” Meg said with a twisted grin. “She went off to become a farmer’s wife with a brood of squalling brats.”
“I’m sorry.” Phoebe could think of nothing else to say.
Meg shrugged. “It wasn’t really Libby’s fault. It’s hard to be strong enough to withstand the whip of convention when it’s wielded by those who have the power of compulsion.”
“But you haven’t yielded.”
“No. I haven’t.”
A loud knock at the door broke the moment of silence.
Phoebe, relieved at the interruption, jumped to her feet. The black cat leaped from her lap in the same instant, needing catlike to prove that the decision to leave his perch was only his. His back claws scored her thighs as he took off.
Phoebe opened the door and a shaft of morning sunlight lit the dim, smoky interior of the little cottage.
An elderly man in rough homespuns stood on the threshold. He looked worried as he asked, “Is Mistress Meg within?”
“Yes, indeed.” Phoebe stepped aside to allow the man entrance.
“Good day, Grandpa.” Meg looked up from her stirring. “How’s the little one?”
“That’s what I come about.” He twisted the cap between his hands. “He’s wheezin‘ summat chronic. Think you’d better come an’ take a look. His mother’s at ‘er wit’s end.”
“I’ll come at once.” Meg rose and reached for her basket of simples that she kept ready packed beside the door. “I’ll see you later, Phoebe.” She hurried past Phoebe and strode off down the path, the elderly man half trotting to keep up with her.
Phoebe closed up the cottage, leaving a window ajar for the cat, then she left the small clearing in the woods.
Ordinarily she would have noticed the young man standing in the doorway of the Bear Inn as she hurried past along the main village street. Strangers were few and far between, particularly those dressed with such obvious finery, but she was too preoccupied with the afternoon’s intriguing revelations.
Brian Morse watched her turn the corner into the lane running alongside the churchyard. “That’s Lady Granville?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Aye, sir.” The man behind the counter in the taproom didn’t look up from the keg he was tapping. “Like I said ‘afore.”
Brian scratched his chin in thought. The barman had pointed her out to him on her way through the village an hour earlier, and he’d been watching for her return. How could that shabby, dumpy little creature be the stately Diana’s sister? How could Cato have taken such an unprepossessing girl to wife?
But of course she was still a Carlton, and came with all that family’s advantages of wealth and lineage. That’s all that would interest Cato. That and getting an heir.
Brian’s little brown eyes grew speculative. This visit to Woodstock was intended as a reconnaissance. He wanted to gauge the lie of the land and decide on the best approach to Cato and his wife. Perhaps the girl’s lack of obvious attraction could work to his advantage. She might well be susceptible to flattery, since it was hard to imagine much came her way.
Once ensconced beneath Cato’s roof, he would try an appeal to her sympathy. Involve her in a clandestine little enterprise that would excite her, make her feel special. Women were so easy to manage.
Except for Jack Worth’s bastard, Portia. The familiar worm of mortification squirmed in his gut, and he turned back to the taproom, demanding curtly, “Ale!”
He took the leather pitch-coated pot and drained it in one long swallow before tossing a coin on the bar counter and calling for his horse. He would return to Oxford and make his preparations to enter his stepfather’s household.
Phoebe was about to climb the stile leading to the home farm and the back entrance to the house when the deep thunder of hooves, the chink of bridles, reached her on the crisp air. It sounded like a large cavalcade cantering down the ice-ridged ruts of the Oxford road. Curious, she sat atop the stile and waited for whoever it was to come around the corner. A party of Parliament’s militia, she guessed. Such troop movements were constant in the Thames valley.
The standard snapping in the wind caught her attention first. It flew above the hedge as the horsemen drew close to the corner. It was the eagle of Rothbury. Rufus Decatur had come back to collect his wife and children.
Phoebe forgot all about the events of the morning. She half fell off the stile in her eagerness to conceal herself before Rufus caught sight of her. She knew exactly how she intended to greet the earl of Rothbury, and it was not in her present guise.
She scrambled across the field, tugging her cloak loose when the hem caught on a thornbush. There was a harsh rending sound but Phoebe ignored it. She raced through the orchard and darted into the house through the kitchen.
Mistress Bisset gave her a startled look as she ran past the linen room, then shrugged and returned to her inventory of sheets. Lady Granville was still Lady Phoebe as far as the household was concerned.
In the bedchamber, Phoebe tore off her old gown, tossing it into a corner. There was water in the ewer and she splashed her face and hands. How long did she have before they arrived? She’d come cross-country, but they were a good mile away along the road, and then another half up the drive. And then there would be all the flurry of dismounting. She had twenty minutes.
She opened the linen press and took out the dark red silk. Cato had not seen this one. She had been going to spring it upon him at dinner, but how much better to show it off as she greeted her first real guests as lady of the manor. Not that Rufus Decatur would notice particularly. A man who preferred his wife in britches was not likely to appreciate the glories of the dark red silk. But then, Phoebe was not seeking to impress the earl of Rothbury.
She dropped the gown over her head and struggled desperately with the hooks at the back. Her arms ached as she twisted and turned, trying to see over her shoulder in the mirror as she fiddled with the tiny fastenings, but at last she had them done.